


The Ancient Boy and the Viking

by I_Twisted



Category: True Blood (TV)
Genre: Angst, Drama, M/M, Vampires, maker-progeny dynamics
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-26
Updated: 2020-08-09
Packaged: 2021-03-05 22:13:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25532668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/I_Twisted/pseuds/I_Twisted
Summary: Eric has shared a bond of unimaginable strength with his maker for ages. He doesn't understand why it should be any different now. But Godric has come to realize his greatest enemy is himself and risks losing it all to the dark. Begins in Episode 2x08, "Timebomb."
Relationships: Godric/Eric Northman
Comments: 8
Kudos: 35





	1. The Viking

Eric followed Godric to his resting place in silence.

He had followed Godric for centuries, and he found the old pattern of retracing his maker's footsteps familiar and comforting in an odd sort of way he couldn't place. Without even thinking about it, he put his feet in the exact spots Godric's had been. It was old habit.

"Step only where I step," Godric had once instructed him when he was still new. "Learn to walk as I do. Be quiet. Disturb nothing."

Eric stared at Godric's back, noting the way his hands were always half-curved into fists, prepared for the onslaught of battle at any moment. He knew Godric's tendency to sway his arms slightly with each step and expected it when he paused for a fraction of a second as they came to a corner.

Those were behaviors learned from millennia of hard living. Those were behaviors Eric had picked up from him.

Even in the very beginning, Eric had never minded walking behind Godric. The idea only bothered him in principle. Of course Eric never liked, nor ever would like, someone else coming before him. But Godric was so much shorter than Eric, it hardly mattered if Godric was in front of him or not. He could always see over his head.

A pang of wistfulness accompanied the thought as it filtered through Eric's mind.

When Godric stopped in front of one of the many doors dotting the walls of the corridor, Eric stopped too. He remained precisely four steps back, a respectful distance away, automatically.

It was not often that Eric was put in a position where he was required to defer to someone else. In Louisiana, he was a sheriff, and since he'd surpassed his thousandth year, he was recognized as a vampire whom precious few could overpower. He was surprised at how quickly the appropriate formalities came back to him.

This was Godric: his father, his brother, his son. This was his _maker_ in every sense of the word.

Eric was overwhelmed again with the thought of all he would have lost if Godric had been destroyed by the Fellowship of the Sun. If Stan, or anyone else like him, had murdered Godric in their own greedy pursuit of power. If he'd truly been gone from this world—

Eric was not keen on emotions. They were pesky inclinations that motivated humans to make terrible decisions and act even worse. It was best to avoid them, and, in avoiding them, sidestep all of their disastrous consequences.

Godric had taught him to think strategically about every detail of his life. "Make certain your head is clear of all influences outside logic," he would say. "Have no regrets."

But that degree of loss, the mere idea of it, sent a hollow aching so deep inside of Eric, he couldn't find a single place within himself to take refuge from it. There was no aspect of Eric that Godric had left untouched. There was nothing unaffected by him.

Eric followed Godric into the room, forcing himself to remain composed as he shut the door behind them. Now that they had reached their destination, he was free to meet his maker where he stood in the center of the room and position himself at his side.

Godric was always such a concrete, unstoppable force in his mind. Nothing could overpower Godric; Godric was invincible. He had long withstood the test of time. Eric never once entertained the notion that he could be taken from him. Until a few weeks ago, when he learned of his disappearance. And the possibility of having him taken away became all too real.

Godric interrupted Eric's horrific train of thought with a small bob of his head. "What do you think?"

Eric realized belatedly he wanted his opinion of the room. He tore his gaze from Godric unwillingly and surveyed the décor, though he couldn't really care less about what the place looked like so long as Godric was safely contained within it.

The walls were an off-white color that served to compliment the intentionally dim lighting of the room. (Godric had been born into a world where fire was the only means of evading the dark, and Eric knew he did not care for anything overly bright.) The furniture was sparse, but every piece was of the highest quality imaginable. Eric duly admired the intricate designs decorating the dresser at the far end of the room. He assumed the craftsman had been Vampire, as he didn't believe any human could possess that degree of patience. The bed was nearby, just as was customary in human bedrooms.

The window, sealed shut with heavy coverings that would not allow even the tiniest slither of sunlight to shine through, and the ancient artifacts Godric always hung on the walls wherever he stayed were the only indications that it was not a mortal who retired here. Eric had not spied the artifacts yet, and he glanced around in search of them. They were miniscule pieces of the places Godric had been that could be taken down in half a second's notice.

"So that, regardless of where an eternity carries me, I never lose sight of my past," he had explained.

As the centuries crept by, and Eric traveled with Godric from the Old World into the New, he began to notice that, while Godric continued to tote his reminders with them, he never obtained any new pieces to add to his collection.

"There is no need," Godric answered when he questioned him about it. "I have you with me now."

Eric scanned the walls a second time in order to pinpoint the current location of the mementos. His expectant gaze wandered each one, beginning with the blank surface in front of him and pivoting around clockwise until he was back to where he started. Each was as barren as the last. Believing he must have missed something, he stepped closer to the wall the headboard of the bed was pushed up against (recalling that was most often where Godric chose to hang them) and began to scrutinize its blankness further.

"They're gone," Godric said, knowing exactly what he was searching for.

Eric turned to look at him, his typically blasé expression slightly taut with misunderstanding. "Why?"

"It was time."

Eric watched as Godric paced to the bed and balanced himself on the edge of it without anything further. He gave the room another once over, then mirrored Godric's actions without prompting. He didn't bother with respectful distances when he sat, and Godric showed no signs of disapproval at his closeness.

"How long have you been without them?"

Godric stared at an invisible spot on the wall Eric had been scrutinizing, as if he was envisioning the artifacts there. "Not long. The past three decades or so."

"Doesn't it seem… empty to you?" Eric knew it sure as hell seemed empty to him. Empty. Desolate. Devoid of personality.

Amazing that before he knew Godric's artifacts were gone, the space had appeared fine. Only after the fact did he absorb the knowledge that nothing here was really Godric's. The décor was only reminiscent of the vampire who inhabited it. What it contained were but echoes, like the metallic remnants a sip of synthetic blood leaves on the tongue after a swallow.

"Sentimental value fades, just like everything else. I saw no reason to cling to material possessions I no longer have any use for."

"You could have sent them to me."

Godric faced him with a glint of amusement in his eye. "And what would you have done with them?"

"I could've put them on display at Fangtasia. I'm sure relics from Ancient Rome would have been quite a draw for tourists." For an explanation pulled directly out of his ass, Eric thought that sounded pretty good. It was much easier to say than the truth: he wouldn't have wanted them for any other reason than that they were part of Godric.

The ghost of a smile graced his maker's lips. "Then I apologize for depriving you of business." The ghost vanished as quickly as it had appeared, and Godric returned his attention to the wall.

Eric examined the side of his face, calling to memory the last time he'd looked upon it. Not one night went by without Godric passing through his thoughts in some form. Everything Eric said, or did, or contemplated doing could be traced back to a moment, a conversation, a lesson involving his creator. But, as often as he thought of him, Eric's visits to Godric were brief and far in between.

It wasn't something that was intentional. It wasn't something that happened in the blink of an eye. It's not possible to transition from spending every waking moment alongside someone to letting a lifetime pass without exchanging a single word in an instant. That kind of erosion occurs slowly, a gradual process of separation and growing apart.

"Gawking is an offensive pastime, best left to the fools who founded the institution."

Godric's reprimanding tone was familiar to Eric, but it was dehydrated by exhaustion. Instead of looking away, he stared all the more intently. A change had definitely taken place in his maker since the last time they were together. However, he was struggling to identify how profound a change it was.

"I should visit you more often," he concluded aloud.

"You visit often enough."

Eric tried not to be hurt by the snub. He quit gawking and mimicked Godric's transfixion with the wall. Said by anyone else, the mild rejection wouldn't bother him. Said by his maker, it stung. And when he looked at the wall, he thought about the artifacts again, recalling why Godric had rid himself of them.

_Sentimental value fades, just like everything else. I saw no reason to cling to material possessions I no longer have any use for._

He felt a brand new sting as he made an intuitive leap, connecting himself to the artifacts. It wasn't a leap at all, really. Just a small step. If Godric didn't care about the memories the artifacts represented, then why should he care for the ones Eric carried with him? Eric despised how much this revelation ate at him. He felt weak for placing this much stock in the opinion of one person, for continuing to give a damn when obviously the unbreakable bond he believed in with such blind faith was not being upheld on the other end. All of the devotion and undying loyalty he invested had somehow become one-sided.

"What changed?" His voice came out softer than usual, hushed by other questions he couldn't get past his lips.

Godric noticed the difference. He stared at him, picking apart his expression with a focus so intense that it was impossible to hold his gaze.

"Eric," he replied seriously after a moment, "I don't place you among the relics." He lifted a hand to Eric's head and stroked the blond hair there in an old, soothing motion of their past. "I love you above all others."

Eric let Godric's assurances relieve him without resistance. He immediately felt guilty for ever questioning anything. A thousand years should be enough time to erase any doubts, but his had still gotten the better of him.

From the initial shock of Godric's disappearance, to the chaotic quest to find him, to second-guessing the invincibility of their bond, Eric was shot. He allowed the welcoming sensations of stability and rightness to flow through his veins like a narcotic. And then he, who very recently had been enraged at himself for relying on someone else so heavily, slumped limply into Godric's side. It was not a comfort he would have allowed himself under any other circumstances, but it was far from the first time Eric had leaned on Godric.

"It's a fascinating concept, love is." Godric moved the hand that had been stroking Eric's hair to his shoulder, inviting the burden of his weight. "They say it never dies."

"Like us," Eric said, smiling at the irony of relating the gruesome image of a vampire to the glorified idea of love.

Godric smiled with him. "I suppose, in a technical sense. But not really. A stake through the heart, silver, the sunlight… We can be destroyed."

Eric thought of the fickleness of love. He sneered at the idealistic views of eternal faithfulness and affection the humans attempted to bind themselves to with petty, pointless vows. Holy matrimony was a joke. If it weren't, what would be the need for divorce? Monogamy was clearly not natural.

"Love can be destroyed."

Godric shook his head, his chin brushing Eric lightly on its pass. "I don't think so. I think it's simply forgotten."

Dawn encroached. A vague weariness settled over Eric, and he straightened to glance at the window. There was no point in looking, the coverings over the glass gave away no hint of the sky lightening, but he found himself double-checking anyway. Two years of society accommodating them was nowhere near enough to erase centuries of surviving secretly beneath the human radar.

He turned to Godric, a farewell caught in his throat. His maker was obviously safe, yet he was still unable to recover from the staggering possibility of loss. Like yanking the foundation out from under a building, without Godric, he would collapse. Eric could not let Godric out of sight. He was not yet strong enough.

"The day is rising," he said in a desperate attempt to justify what he was about to ask. "May I stay with you?"

Godric cocked his head at him.

Eric fully expected to be called out on his weakness. He prepared himself for a swift, stinging humiliation. He wouldn't try to make excuses. He would accept whatever rebuke he had earned.

But the infinitely powerful vampire beside him only looked him in the eye for several torturous seconds, and then turned away. "If it suits you."

Eric blinked. Yes, a change had definitely occurred in his maker that he hadn't been around to witness. He rose with a nod and proceeded to remove his clothes, his confusion mounting when Godric made no move to join him. He sat stoically, like a pondering statue devoid of any kind of animation.

Stripped bare, Eric reclined back on the mattress without bothering with the blankets. They were for show as far as vampires were concerned. What was the point in using them when one did not give off body heat? He crossed his arms behind his head nonchalantly and shut his eyes. He had no qualms with nudity. Actually, he preferred it to the annoying restriction of clothing.

It was a relief to hear the bed's soft squeak when Godric laid down next to him. Despite his outward peace, he had wondered if his maker wouldn't just sit there staring numbly off into space until the early hour forced him to submit to it. It wouldn't have been the first time.

Eric cracked open an eye lazily, the weariness of the day increasing in potency with each passing minute, and appraised him.

Godric was laying on his side, covered all the way down to the shoes on his feet. He was propped up on one elbow with his head cradled in his palm, his deceptively wide, youthful gaze fixated on him. Godric was appraising Eric too.

Eric waggled his brow at him.

A grin broke out on Godric's face, and a tiny chuckle escaped him.

It was the first time since Eric had reunited with Godric at the Fellowship of the Sun church that he had expressed anything resembling joy. Eric relished in the sound, feeling triumphant for having evoked it.

"You still have a sense of humor." Godric folded both arms across his chest, lowering his cheek to meet the pillow. "I'm glad."

This new position exposed more of the tattoos concealed underneath his shirt than the previous did, and Eric was reminded of one of the conversations they'd had about the various marks of ink etched into his skin. He had assumed they were a reward, symbols to denote a higher rank and status, and Godric was quick to correct him.

"They were a punishment." Eric could still remember the way he ran his thumb along the design wrapped around his collarbones as he said it. "One I will continue to serve forever, as it turns out."

A voice identical to the one in his memory summoned him back to the present.

"Tell me something, Eric. Are you happy?"

Godric was safe, here, existing, speaking… Eric let his eyes slide closed. "Why shouldn't I be?"

He felt the bed tremble. Godric must have shifted again. He was beginning to feel a little weightless himself. Though the room was carefully shielded from any confirmation, Eric knew it must be daylight. The weariness was tugging at him, pulling him closer and closer to the edge of the grave.

He would have fallen in, had Godric not spoken again.

"You're happy being as you are now, satisfied with where this second life has taken you?"

"Yes," Eric whispered simply, quite literally half-dead.

Godric did not ask him anything else.

Eric let the day disconnect him from his body and drifted without quarrel into the silence of temporary death. But all was not silent. There was something brushing his hair—a whisper.

"Persevere, my child."

It sounded so final that Eric fought for awareness, trying to get enough of a hold on it to resurface, but too much time had passed since he surrendered. The words were left hanging over him. They felt too few and too heavy, and Eric's last thought was that something was very wrong.


	2. The Double Agent

Hugo burst free of the closet, red-faced and gasping for breath.

The door hit the wall with a slam as condemning as a gunshot. It was too loud. His shoulders tensed, but he couldn't look back. If there was someone, anyone, behind him, he would freeze. He didn't know why he was running in the first place. It wasn't like he expected to get out of the church alive, not when they all knew he was a traitor.

_Stupid!_ He berated himself with each stride. _So stupid!_

And yet, for whatever reason, luck was on his side. The place was dead. There was absolutely no one in sight. A few rolled up sleeping bags leftover from the lock-in were the only things standing between him and the exit.

Sweat dripped down his back as he neared the threshold, and he hesitated to push his way outside. He didn't believe it could be so easy.

It couldn't. The second he stopped moving was the second the front door was forced open from the other side. There wasn't enough time to back off. Whoever wanted in the church was running every bit as fast as he had been, probably faster, and knocked right into him. The collision was rough on his new bruises. He cursed Gabe and his calloused fists.

The man plowed through without so much as pausing. "Watch it!" he snapped, glancing over his shoulder just long enough for Hugo to recognize him.

It was Luke McDonald.

Hugo met Luke the day he went to the Fellowship and swore off vampires for good. He came in to talk to Reverend Newlin while Hugo was being instructed on how to repent his sins, to open his heart to His Light. When the prayers were over, the Reverend introduced them. Luke shook his hand, told him the right things were the hardest, and promised the guys at the Fellowship would have his back from there on out. No matter what.

"Luke, wait!"

He turned at the sound of his name, giving Hugo a chance to catch up with him. His brow was down, mouth open. He didn't seem to have any idea who he was.

"It - it's me, Hugo."

At that, Luke started to walk away again.

"Hugo Ayres," he rushed to clarify, grabbing at his arm. "Please help me."

"The only one who needs my help is Steve. You run on back to your vampire pals and tell 'em this ain't over."

"What? I can't! You don't understand!"

He tore out of Hugo's grip and stormed off. "Get lost, banger!"

Sookie was right: the Fellowship didn't care.

Hugo turned around and kicked a sleeping bag. He sprinted out of the church and down the street. He ran for his life, but it didn't change anything. They didn't care about him and probably never had. They were using him just as much as Isabel was, and, when lines were drawn, it was clear they had no problem tossing him back to the vampires. Or killing him themselves.

Every business in sight was closed, and there wasn't much traffic. It must have been late. He was thankful for the illusion of safety, that if anyone came after him, he should see them coming. Not too thankful, though, because he knew an illusion was all it was. He was sure the vampires knew he double-crossed them by now, and that meant he would never be truly safe again.

It didn't matter where he went. It didn't matter how much time passed. They were everywhere, and, to them, time was irrelevant.

He veered off the main road, leaning against the side of a building to rest. He needed to calm down so he could think, but that was easier said than done when it seemed he had nothing in the world but enemies.

Hurriedly considering his options, he felt what he thought was sweat trickling down his forehead and swiped at it with his arm. He cringed, wondering if Sookie got beat up as badly as he did. Whatever happened must have finally been enough to get Bill's attention because, when he came to, she was gone, and Gabe's neck was broken.

Now wasn't the time to worry about her. He had to get moving. He'd already lingered too long, but there wasn't anywhere he would be welcome. He'd fallen out of touch with all of his regular acquaintances in favor of his relationship with Isabel. He hadn't heard from his parents or either of his brothers in almost a year.

It was stupid, so stupid, but the only place he could think to go was home.

* * *

Hugo staggered lifelessly into his apartment, limping his way over to the couch and collapsing without even the strength to turn on a light. He needed sleep, but the moment his back hit the cushions, he couldn't get his mind off the irritation of his shirt sticking to his skin. It was soaked through. He was burning up and dirty, and all he was willing to do about it was stare at the propellers of the fan on the end table and wait for them to start spinning by themselves. He only felt more uncomfortable the longer he waited.

With a groan, he rolled onto his side, turning toward the large window across the room. His lips parted, and then he swallowed.

He wasn't alone.

She was standing in front of the moonlit glass, an outline cloaked in black, as if someone had torn her from the picture and left behind a hole specific to her every detail. Her back was to him. Everything perfectly straight. Perfectly still. Perfect.

He didn't try to get away. He was only surprised that she was the one to come for him. Did they order her to do it? Did she volunteer? She knew the way to the apartment; she was there almost as often as he was. Her clothes were hanging in his bedroom, for Christ's sake.

She had to know he was watching her, that he knew she was there. Even though he had no idea how long she had been standing around before he noticed, her blood made it so she could always feel him. He used to think it was amazing. Now, he wanted to cut himself open and force her out. It wasn't fair when she would never let him know her that way, no matter how much he begged or pleaded with her for it. She pissed him off, drove him crazy, in the best... the most extreme sense possible. He didn't think there was another woman out there who could get to him like she could.

As he laid there, and she continued to do nothing, he started to wonder if he was wrong. What evidence did he have that she came to kill him? The last time he saw her, she didn't have a clue he was with the Fellowship. Maybe no one got to her yet.

Getting up from the couch was like taking a mini vacation to hell. The pain was so sharp, he could die without help from anyone. He hobbled closer to her, offering a neutral, "Hi."

She released a breath.

It wasn't loud enough to be a sigh, but it was noticeable enough to make him question how long she'd been holding it. He watched her shoulders relax and wondered what that meant.

"You're bleeding, Hugo."

She didn't turn until after she said it, he noted, a bitter taste in his mouth. She didn't even need to look to know.

His attitude changed when she saw the extent of his injuries and reached out to rub a mark on his chin, the first concern he'd been shown all night. It was nice and gentle, but it still hurt. When he winced, she hummed as if he just did something particularly interesting, and the sound, which always seemed intensely erotic in bed, made him uneasy.

"What has the Fellowship done to you?" She lifted her hands to the collar of his shirt, smoothing it. "Was there torture?"

"Torture?" He threw the word back as quickly as he would recoil from a hot stove. "N - no, no organized torture, anyway. They just locked me up, so when their sergeant wanted to fight, he knew where to find me. A fangbanger's an ideal punching bag in their book."

"I don't understand how they knew you enjoyed the company of vampires at all."

"Well, the Fellowship has a lot of supporters. I guess someone I knew must have told them about me."

"Really. Who?"

"I don't know. Probably someone I couldn't get acquitted." He laughed because she was fastening the buttons that had come undone on his shirt, and the feel of her cold fingers inching toward his throat was anything but funny. "The only ones I talked to really were the Newlins."

"I felt your fear."

"Uh, yeah, they kept us in the basement the whole time. It was a tight squeeze."

"I can imagine. You were terrified, but not for long."

He had to look away, his eyes latching onto the couch, wishing he'd never left it. For the first time, the bloodstains on the armrest seemed like part of a crime scene. He remembered her fangs like twin daggers in his jugular, sucking the life out of him swallow by careful swallow, and how quickly she bit into her own arm when she thought she might have taken too much. Her blood soaked into the furniture too. It would be good, hard evidence in court, if his case ever made it to trial. A year of defending vampires had taught him how skilled they were at covering their own tracks.

"I would have come for you, if I felt it necessary, but as soon as I would consider it... It was almost as though you feared my coming even more than being trapped." She finished with his shirt and flattened her palms against his chest. "What could possibly make you feel that way?"

Under her hands, his pulse was skyrocketing. He could barely hear over the thudding in his ears. "I - "

She nudged the tender spot on his chin until he faced her. At first, he thought she was going to glamour him, but he only got more nervous when he looked in her eyes. "All I ask is for your honesty. I have shared everything with you. I would think I have earned at least so much."

She sounded sincere. After all of the fights they'd had about her turning him, she had the nerve to act like she'd never heard a single argument, like he had no reason to resent her at all. His mortality meant that little to her. He'd get old and sick and die, and she was okay with it.

He grabbed her by the wrists and ripped her hands off of him. The twisted feeling in his gut warning him to be cautious was overpowered by every time he asked for her forever only to be ignored. "You haven't shared anything with me! You won't!"

She shook her head from side to side, denying it. "How could you do this?"

"You like having all the power." He jabbed a finger at her. "You don't want me to be your equal."

"I have done nothing but care for you."

"No, you just like the taste of my blood! That's all you've ever cared about!"

The answering blow to his face was so hard and fast, it disoriented him. He staggered back a few steps before he lost his footing completely and tumbled to the floor. An immediate, searing pain shot down the side of his neck. That he could feel it at all was proof she hadn't hit him with anywhere near the level of strength she was capable of. He didn't hear the familiar sound of her fangs emerging, but they were in plain view when he risked a look up at her. He only coaxed them from her in passion previously, and the sight of their points protruding over her bottom lip never failed to excite him, but the threat was real now.

Everything took a backseat to self-preservation. "Please, please, don't kill me."

She flew at him, seizing the shirt she'd only just straightened and pulling him up. Her gaze darted from his crumpled legs to his hairline, quick and furious, like she could hardly stand to look. "We could have lost our sheriff because of you! I should beat you to a pulp and suck you bloodless!"

The thought was so horrifying, his feet wobbled under him when he tried to set them in place. He gulped back the irony mixture of blood and spit flooding his mouth with an uncontrollable whimper. "Isabel, please! It's you and me! You can't kill me!"

To his shock, her grip on him loosened and fell away. He struggled to regain his balance, watching as she turned toward the window.

"You're right."

He heaved a very long, very shaky sigh. The relief was blinding and left him groping frantically for some part of her to hold, to kiss. If he could just show how much he -

"It is not my place to sentence you. I will bring you to Godric."

His stomach dropped. "Godric?"

She took hold of his arm and half-dragged him to the door. He was so bashed up, so petrified, it made him clumsy. He knocked over a vase that had been a housewarming gift from his neighbor on the way out, and his last memory of home was the instant it dropped on the tile and shattered.

* * *

"Here is the one who betrayed us." Isabel released the collar of Hugo's shirt and thrust him to the floor, leaving him at the mercy of everyone in Godric's nest.

The rug seared the heels of his hands when he tried to catch his fall. Slowly, he lifted his head, needing to see how many vampires were attending his sentencing. He recognized more faces than he wanted to admit—past clients, what little remained of his current clients. They gave him a wide berth, but it was obvious they couldn't wait to see him hang.

A wave of relief washed over him when he realized the sheriff was absent. Hugo could count the number of times he'd seen Godric in person on one hand, and he'd hoped every time would be the last. The guy gave him the creeps, to put it mildly.

"Hell, you didn't drain the little shit yet?"

Hugo tensed at the familiar drawl, bowing his head and glancing toward Isabel's shoes. Godric's absence didn't seem like such a great thing if it put his life in the hands of Stan Davis. His stomach was in knots waiting for her answer.

"That is not my decision to make, Stan, and you know it. Where is Godric?"

"He wandered off with his progeny," Stan sneered. "Didn't say when or if he'd be comin' back. Even if he did, he'd probably just give this one a goddamn slap on the wrist and send him on his way. Fuckin' pacifist."

At that, the other vampires in the room began to grumble. Even Hugo knew Stan's opinion of their sheriff wasn't a popular one.

"If you disapprove of his policies, you can tell him so to his face," Isabel said tersely. "I would love to see how he responds to your criticism."

"And in the meantime we're just supposed to let this traitor hang around and enjoy the party? I'll take care of him myself."

A strong blast of wind blew papers off an empty chair in front of where Hugo was kneeling. He heard the fleshy _click_ of fangs. He saw a shape, black and blurred, shooting at his face. He felt the brush of cold fingers against his forehead -

Suddenly a second blast of wind came at him from the side, grazing his face like a slap on the cheek.

The fingers were gone. Stan stumbled into the wall across the room with a _thump,_ coming into focus again.

Isabel was now standing in front of him. She placed her hands on her hips and addressed Stan. "You will do no such thing."

Stan snorted. "You can't be serious. He was with the Fellowship, Isabel."

"Yes, the same Fellowship that had Godric. It is not my place to deal with him, and it certainly isn't yours. We will hold him here until the sheriff is available." She pulled Hugo up by the shirt collar, not seeming to notice the choking sound he made when he teetered onto his feet.

His heart only beat faster the more distance Isabel put between them and the others. It was dawning on him now what had almost happened a moment before, how close Stan had been to killing him. Unlike with Isabel, he had absolutely no chance of being able to change his mind. He remembered the cold brush against his forehead and shuddered.

Isabel's hand came down hard on his back. "Breathe, you pathetic excuse for a man. Breathe."

"Oh, God," he gasped. "Oh, God."

She walked faster, dragging him along. She stopped at a door Hugo had never seen before, far from the familiar comforts of her own room. She opened it and shoved him inside, her disgust obvious. "You will wait here."

He looked around, taking in the dark green walls and singular lamp. He sat on a bed pushed into the shadows of a corner. The mattress barely gave at all, but he was grateful for it. He tried to catch Isabel's eye, but she stared determinedly at a spot just above his head. He rubbed the back of his neck. "Why did you save me? I—I know I don't deserve it."

She turned away and shut him in the little room.


	3. The Ancient Boy

Eric had asked to stay with him, so Godric decided it was not too much of a hardship to continue to exist for a few moments longer. He combed his fingers idly through Eric's hair, gazing down at his face as his features slackened. He looked like death and peace—because one could not exist without the other. One could not have peace without death; one could not have death without peace.

Death—the name Eric had called him by before any other. Barbarian, Tyrant, Comrade, Maker, Godric—those all came later. But Death, Death was first.

Well, Godric had made his peace. He thought he had made it much earlier, before he offered himself to the anti-vampire church, but he was wrong. Eric deserved a goodbye, and, as unfortunate as the recent turn of events seemed, they had allowed Godric to give him that much, however indirectly. He wanted to make this as painless as possible for everyone involved.

Of course it was going to be difficult for the companion he'd spent the better part of a thousand years with. Godric wasn't so delusional he could deny that. Quite frankly, though, there was nothing he could do to—

Godric's thoughts were silenced by a series of deep, cutting aches. His arms, his legs, all of him tensed and throbbed as it had been doing routinely for the past... week? Two weeks? He wasn't sure. He sat up and rearranged his weeping limbs until the hunger pains eased. As long as he didn't remain in the same position for any extended period of time, it was manageable.

At his age, a sip of blood was all it would take to ward off the spasms, but Godric didn't want it. There was a certain relief, an immediate concreteness, to be found in physical suffering. The pain was a welcome distraction from the convoluted workings of his mind. Godric had a terrible sense that the space reserved for his conscious thoughts was shrinking as his past extended. It was almost frighteningly easy to step into another time, another place. He had known so many.

The bed jolted.

Godric looked to Eric in puzzlement, seeing his fingers claw at the blankets beneath him as though grasping for something. It was heartening to know Eric had not stopped fighting... His last breath left his body in the next instant in any case, and every sign of tension left him as he slipped away.

Godric rose with thoughts of the sun burning behind his eyes. The images in his memory of the giant, blazing star that sustained all life were scant and horribly faded. In truth, he could no longer tell whether they were sights he had witnessed himself, or if they were merely scenes he’d lifted from human photographs and movies over the years.

There were quite a few things like that for him.

Just as he was about to leave the room, Godric's eyes fell on the sloppy pile of black garments that Eric had discarded on the floor. The faint glimmer of something unlike the rest struck his eternally puerile curiosity. So few things struck anything in him anymore, he embraced the impulse like something long lost and infinitely precious.

Less than an instant later, he was kneeling beside the clothes. He lifted the necklace that had captured his attention by the pendent, grasping it inquisitively between his first finger and thumb. A dim shadow of recognition registered within him (dim because that was how everything registered to Godric: dimly, dully, and distantly), and he let the eagle claw slip down to settle in his palm.

He was still crouched down holding the pendant in his hand when the door opened. In a house full of vampires, in the early hours of a sunlit morning, this was an extremely odd occurrence. He didn't know of any one of his underlings who would be bold enough to burst into his resting place unannounced and uninvited.

Godric looked up into a pair of large, startled eyes.

It was a young man. His shirt was pale yellow and clearly identified him as a member of the Fellowship of the Sun. He was wearing a utility belt of sorts, equipped with at least a dozen sharp, wooden stakes. They were attached to the belt by thin loops of white elastic, each spaced roughly the width of two fingers apart.

The loop on his right hip was empty. His right hand was not.

He held the freed stake in a fist raised to the same height as his shoulder. He clearly intended to charge into the room and destroy every vampire inside, but he wasn't prepared to find one awake. The shock had frozen him.

How Godric envied the purpose and determination simmering behind the human's every twisted feature. Even the hatred, ugly as it was, sang out to him. Looking such energy in the face felt so bizarre to him now. It was nearly impossible to believe he'd ever known its urgency. To want, need, crave, care, _feel_.

Godric pulled unneeded air into his lungs and donated it to a soft sigh. He let the necklace that had captured his interest fall back onto Eric's clothes. When he got to his feet, the human in the doorway backed a few steps into the hall, his actions much more instinctual than deliberate.

"You are here for my nestmates," Godric said plainly. He followed the human's retreat out of the room and shut the door behind them.

The human man kept the point of the stake trained on Godric's chest, even though his hand was shaking. His eyes twitched with the desire to escape the vampire's stare, but they were unable to break away. The rhythm of his pulse became more pronounced.

Just when it seemed fear would give way to panic, Godric was reminded faith truly was a powerful thing. This man was a warrior on a mission for Steve Newlin and his organization’s cause to cleanse the planet. If he died, he would die for a reason. His God, his Jesus, would protect and save him. And so all at once his demeanor transformed with conviction.

And Godric envied him again.

"I'm here to send 'em back to hell. Where they belong."

"Hell…" Godric muttered, his thoughts jumping tracks for the moment. "Where is hell, do you think?"

"I don't know. Why don't you tell me when you get there?” He charged forward.

Godric moved to meet him. Before the man could travel even a step, his wrist was immobilized with as much ease as a baseball thrown into a catcher's ready glove. "I can't allow you to do that. This nest is under my protection. And that is not a responsibility I take lightly."

"Yeah, well, my responsibility is to take you out. And I don't take it lightly either."

The soldier spit on Godric. The saliva was slimy and warm on his cheek, and he paid it little mind. Maybe he would wipe it off later. Maybe it would dry. Maybe he would die soon, and it would perish with him. That seemed oddly fitting—to die with spit on his face.

"If I give you my life, do I have your word you will only harm me and no one else?"

If he were smart, he would have lied. If he were wise, he would have seen the offer for the gift it was and accepted. As it turned out, the Soldier of the Sun was neither of these things.

"Fuck you!"

Godric placed one hand around the man's jaw. He disarmed him with the other, then lifted it to the base of the skull. His hold was tight and strategic, practiced and sure.

"I admire your bravery," he said, and then he twisted the neck swiftly to one side and snapped it.

The body went limp. He dropped it, listening to the faint thud as it hit the carpeted floor. The killing was fast and efficient, which was preferable to Godric, and the Soldier of the Sun's brief interruption was filed away with the millions of others who had died at his hands and almost, always _almost_ , forgotten.

For a moment, he let the faces of his victims flash at him. The dead, the drained, and the tortured all converged together as if they were pages in a scrapbook of atrocity. One on a piano, another in a bed, twenty by the mouth of a cave, an entire army... Somewhere along the line, Godric lost count. Oh, well. The numbers were far too high to mean anything anyway.

Godric tucked the horrors away to find the body of the fallen soldier much closer than he remembered it being before. He looked down at himself and realized his legs were no longer supporting him. His body rested on the floor, tangled and useless. He tried to evaluate his physical state objectively, finding himself dizzy and unable to summon the strength to stand. He attributed it to the time of day in combination with the lack of blood in his system.

He permitted his head to loll to the side, his eyes downcast. What he wouldn't give for a window. Just one tiny pane of glass through which the sun could reach him. His end would be slow and excruciating in the muted rays… What would the others think when night fell again and they found him slumped against this wall…?

The body beside him could explain his peculiar position easily enough. But they would surely cry out for vengeance then. He'd already coaxed peace from them once. They would not concede to it again without some sort of struggle. Godric could not hold them off… forever.

Not if…

Didn't want… mutiny…

Temporary death, or something equally mind-numbing, claimed Godric then. But the nothingness was not long lasting. He opened his eyes in a daze, discovering that he had slid further down the wall. He could feel the fibers of the carpet leaving an impression in his cheek and considered attempting to right himself, but had no desire to move, had no desire for anything at all.

He glanced up at the silver chains still gleaming beside him. They were wrapped around the dead soldier's chest in an awkward crisscrossing fashion, obviously strung together hastily in preparation for infiltrating the nest. Godric reached out with a heavy, unwilling arm and pressed his fingertips against the caustic metal.

In the dead silence, he could hear the soft sizzling sound as it burned through his skin and into his flesh. He waited a beat before pulling a slight distance away. His fingers remained connected to the chain by thin, bloody strings of melted tissue.

Godric stared, bemused.

It was really rather beautiful.

A vague itching sensation on the roof of his mouth was the only sign his fangs wished to emerge. For most, it was considered impossible to keep them retracted when coming in contact with silver. Like many things generally considered facts in the vampire community, this no longer held true where Godric was… concerned.

At times… it all became so...

…another night, another hour…

…unendurable.

"Godric?"

He was too far out of it to decide whether he'd actually heard the woman's voice calling to him, or if its quiet twang was an echo from long ago, resounding back from someplace beyond the brink of his sanity. His mind was made up for him as she came into view (had his eyes been open all this time?) moving toward him down the hall. Her pace was brisk, her face anxious as she took in his position on the floor.

It was a familiar face, he knew. It was nice to know. It was nice to be certain that their meeting had happened and settled somewhere inside his cluttered brain. Or did she merely resemble someone else he'd come in contact with over the years?

Human beings held fast to the idea that they were individuals, each of them distinct and separate from the other, and no two could ever be alike. Over 2,000 years of living among them had taught Godric differently. A pair of eyes, a nose, a mouth… It all blurred together after awhile.

Could she, then, be a dream? He seldom dreamed anymore, but he was sleeping in such an unusual position… No, not sleeping. Dead. He was dead. How, then, could Godric have ever had a dream? Did the dead dream? But, no, he wasn't dead. He was—he was—

Godric's head began to spin in circles, careening out of control into complete pandemonium. Words—trillions of words, all in varying dialects from everywhere in the past and present combined—rushed through his depleted mind like a herd of wild horses on a path so beaten, it could hardly be discerned as a path at all anymore.

His expression contorted into a grimace, but he was beyond noticing.

_Stop, stop, stop. Please. Please stop. Oh, I'm tired, so tired… Please…_

_Focus. Focus. Focus on something, anything. The woman, the woman, pay attention to the woman._

She was hurrying to get to him, but the concern that propelled her forward evaporated when her gaze fell on the corpse at his side. She halted, her eyes enlarged, and she swallowed laboriously. Her face was an exact replica of the one she had been wearing after she watched him kill Gabe in the basement of the Fellowship of the Sun church.

Oh, yes. So that was where they'd met.

He could tell the exact moment when the stakes and silver chains decorating the body changed her mind again. She raced to Godric, giving the fallen Solider of the Sun an unnecessarily harsh kick when his body obstructed her path.

"What did he do to you?" Her hands twittered uncertainly over his immobile form. "Are you hurt?"

Godric stared at the blood drying on his recently healed fingertips. Had there really been that much? Perhaps it was the bleeds. "No."

He made an effort to sit up. The effort was successful, but he was assaulted with a powerful wave of dizziness upon rising and bobbled drunkenly. The woman grabbed hold of his arm to steady him. It was strange to be so weak, even a bit refreshing.

"Come on. It's light out. We need to find you a place to rest."

She looped his arm securely around her slender shoulders, and he did his best to help her heft him to his feet. They trudged slowly in some direction or other, her steps made sluggish by his. By the time it occurred to Godric that they had been a mere foot away from his sleeping quarters, they were long since past it.

He paid more careful attention to their progress after that, waiting until he spotted a door he was sure led to an empty bed. "Stop here."

She did as he said. "Here?"

He nodded.

She twisted the knob, but nothing came of it. She tried again. Still nothing. "Do you have a key? It's locked."

He replaced her feeble grip with his own, though it felt feeble too when compared to his usual strength. Still, it was no trouble to twist the mechanism hard enough to snap the pins preventing it from turning.

"I guess that'll do it." She pushed the door aside without pausing, her experience with his kind apparent.

He let her guide him inside, feeling something near relief, until he noticed that the bed he needed was already occupied. There was a man slumped over on the edge of the mattress. They stopped in front of him, the floor squeaked beneath their feet, and he started and jerked upright. Godric recognized this face without too much struggle. It was Isabel's human, the one who had revealed himself to be a traitor.

“Hugo?” The woman's voice went sour. "What are you doin' here?"

"What am I doing? Sookie, what are you—" Hugo's eyes moved rapidly between her and Godric. He squeezed them shut and ground the heel of his hand into his crinkled lids. "Okay," he said, as if coming to some sort of agreement with himself. "Okay."

Godric could only imagine one scenario that would explain his presence. "Did Isabel place you here?"

"Yeah." He stood up and looked at him. "Yes. She did. She told me to wait. That whatever happens to me is your decision."

In spite of his best efforts to remain both upright and focused, Godric began to sway from side to side, his legs threatening to give way. The woman took note of this a second after he did and tightened her hold on him accordingly.

Hugo watched, his resolve shaken. "Hey, are you… alright?"

"Of course he's not alright!" The woman snapped before Godric could formulate a response. "It's the middle of the day, and you're smack dab in the way of his bed. I'm sure the last thing he wants to do right now is figure out what to do with you."

Godric let the woman (Sookie, was it?) pull him toward the bed, but he stopped just short of reaching it.

"Come on," she encouraged, assuming he was giving up. "Almost there."

Calling upon the impenetrable willpower that had seen him through 2,000 years of existence, he straightened and ducked out from under her hold. "The day would be the safest time for you to leave," he said, facing Hugo. He could hold the exhaustion at bay for a few moments longer. He could think clearly enough to give instructions that would preserve a life in place of the soldier's he had just taken away. "Go now, get as far from here as you can. I will send someone I trust to check after you when darkness falls again."

Hugo was still at first. He began to nod, slowly at first, resigned, and then his head shot up. "Really? I can go? I can—thank you!" He raced to the door. "Thank you!"

The instant Hugo disappeared from view, Godric collapsed on the bed.

"Are you gonna be okay?" Sookie asked.

"Soon," he replied. "Thank you."

"Oh, not at all. I mean, it's the least I could do after…" She visibly struggled for words, her throat bobbing, her mouth opening and closing with no sound coming out. "...what you did for me." Her mouth pulled up into a tense grin that made absolutely no sense when they both knew she was referring to her own near-rape.

There was a beat of silence.

"Goodnight," she said, and then stumbled when she realized it was the wrong sentiment. "Er—good… day, I guess."

She closed the door behind her, encasing Godric in a dungeon of black he knew better than his reflection.

As he waited for death to claim him, he thought about the reality he would return to when he opened his eyes again. Though he had planned otherwise, he would have to withstand another night of existing. He wasn't angered by the idea, or even saddened. There was no remorse or relief. There was no… anything.

He thought of Isabel, and Stan, and all of the other vampires in his nest. He thought of how much they relied on him, reminded himself how often they turned to him for guidance when they were lost. He thought of the vow he'd made to himself once upon a time to survive, no matter the cost.

He thought of Eric.

Godric tried with every ounce of his waning strength to wade through the sea of numbness that had materialized around him like insulation from the world. He tried to reach beyond black, empty void to grasp at some shadow of feeling. He wanted so badly at that moment to find something beyond indifference.

He wanted it for his nest, for his past self, for Eric.

But all he could pick up on was an obscure tingling of bitter, jaded disappointment. Like a human limb that had been twisted the wrong way for far too long.


End file.
